The Cost of Showing Up

On professionalism, performance, and breaking down in the disabled toilet before lunch.

I ironed my shirt twice that morning, not because it was wrinkled— but because I needed to believe I was ready.

Workers on their Way Home by Edvard Munch, 1913-1915

7:00 AM

It was Monday.

I’d already worked a full day on Sunday—alone in the office until 9 pm—because I knew this week would demand more of me.

I was planning and delivering a series of diversity and inclusion convenings, the first of its kind in scope and ambition. This meant curating and coordinating speakers, sessions, and senior stakeholders over the course of a month. It wasn’t technically part of my job but was attached to my name, so failure wasn’t an option. I couldn’t afford to appear unprepared. I couldn't afford to be average.

This wasn’t just another start to the week—it was me mentally loading up the armour.

Breakfast was a bowl of Greek yoghurt, a sliced banana, granola, honey and a long double espresso. Cold, sweet, sharp. Everything was ritualised. Precise. A performance of control.

I cycled in, as usual, headphones on, and two podcasts queued before 8:30 am: Money Talks, FT News Briefing, and maybe a quick analysis of geopolitics by The Rest is Politics. Then came the music loud enough to drown the weight of the day before it began. Maybe it was DARE, maybe Da Funk or Praise You— something relentless, glitchy and somewhat euphoric enough to convince me I could outpace whatever was waiting for me.

9:00 AM

By 9 am, I’m locking up the bike outside one of those generic monolithic glass skyscrapers—gleaming, imposing, curated to impress. A building that flatters your sense of professional worth, just long enough for you to forget how easily you could be replaced.

Inside, the foyer was all polished marble and understated wealth. A sanctuary of sorts—until the lift doors open. I nod to the security guard as I pass through, and sometimes the maintenance staff too—usually the only other Black faces in the building. We don’t always speak. We don’t have to. The nod is enough.

Then it’s up into the machine: docking stations, performance smiles, and the quiet, daily work of proving I belong.

I stepped inside, waved good morning to colleagues, made small talk, and walked a few rows away from my team so I could focus. It was going to be a chaotic week, and I couldn’t waste energy pretending to be more relaxed than I was.

9:20 AM

The emails were already coming in.

One by one, the people who had promised to help deliver the events—those who said they believed in the work, believed in me—began pulling out. One was “on holiday.” Another was “too busy this week.” One didn’t even reply—he was supposed to be facilitating a discussion on “Addressing Systemic Issues”, scheduled for that afternoon, and the session was already oversubscribed.

Shit.

I pivoted. Cashed in favours. Called on colleagues I trusted. Juggled logistics and disappointment in the same breath.

The convening wasn’t even part of my core job, so I worked on Sunday to ensure all my actual deliverables were completed—this way my manager couldn’t say I was distracted. Couldn’t accuse me of “falling behind.”

Still, I felt the pressure piling. If the event failed, it would be my failure. Not the team's. Not the company's. Mine. There would be no room to explain that the others bailed. No space for context.

11:20 AM

That’s when the first WhatsApp came through. A gentle warning from one colleague. Then another. Different words, same message: I was being discussed.

My manager was criticising me, saying I wasn’t a “team player.” Apparently, sitting a few desks away meant I was isolating myself. That I wasn’t contributing to “team culture.”

I couldn’t even process it properly. I was trying to finalise pitch notes for a high-stakes meeting scheduled for early afternoon, draft a risk assessment, and find backup facilitators for the virtual global convening starting in hours. But I replied. I said thank you. And I stayed in my seat.

Minutes later, my manager pulled me aside.

“You need to sit with the team more,” she said.

“You’re not being visible. You’re not showing you’re part of the group.”

I tried to explain. That I organise after-work drinks. That I host colleagues at my flat. That I do show up—for everyone. That sitting alone helps me concentrate, especially when I’m juggling extra responsibilities that no one else wants to touch.

She didn’t respond. Just nodded and walked away.

Not long after, the senior director—her ally—repeated the same thing. Word-for-word, almost. “Team culture.” “Visibility.” “Engagement.”

Again, I explained myself. Again, nothing.

I walked back to my desk knowing full well that everyone had seen me get pulled aside twice. I felt exposed.

11:57 AM

Then, out of nowhere a colleague from another department passed by. Middle-aged, Dutch, maternal in that quiet, understated, no-nonsense way. She always spoke gently. She never asked how you were unless she meant it. Just… sincere. Her voice always carried a kind of soft authority, like she’d seen people unravel and knew exactly when to intervene.

She paused beside my desk, eyes scanning my face for something I wasn’t sure I’d hidden well.

She tilted her head and asked, gently:

“How are you doing?”

Not out of politeness or performance. Not because it was 11:57. But because she saw something.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My throat caught. My face cracked.

That was it.
The feeling I’d been holding back—even from myself—rose intensely from within. Not dramatic. Just steady. A slow, dense ache that had been lodged in my throat all morning began to swell, pressing upward, pushing past the bravado I’d perfected over time. It didn’t ask permission. It just surfaced—raw, real, and impossible to ignore.

I couldn’t answer.

12:00 PM

I rushed to the lift, went down a few floors, found a disabled toilet, locked the door—and let it out.

I don’t know exactly what broke me. Maybe it was the fact that I'd already worked on Sunday, sacrificing time with friends, to get ahead. Maybe it was being talked about in whispers by managers, in front of colleagues, who didn’t understand the difference between being quiet and being disconnected. Maybe it was the pressure to deliver a global event on race while colleagues—some of whom looked like me—bailed at the last minute.

Maybe it was all of it.

The shame. The exhaustion. The constant performance of composure.

Fuck.

After a few deep breaths and a cold splash of water to the face, I wiped my face, straightened my shirt, and reapplied the bravado. I went back upstairs, delivered the pitch and submitted the risk assessment, then facilitated the global convening to over 120 people. And it went well. Really well.

And that was just Monday.

Reflection

Somewhere between joy and exhaustion, I realised I was still here. Still trying.

I’d survived the morning. Ticked the boxes. Pulled it off. But at what cost?

Despite my best efforts—exceeding expectations, making space for others, doing the work of three—I still left that day feeling like I had let everyone down.

I wasn’t enough for my team.
Not enough for my community.
Not enough for myself.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

Why is it so easy for some people to coast through the day, to laugh and exhale and be—while I contort myself into something palatable, something sharp and productive and low-maintenance?

I wasn’t asking to be celebrated.

I just didn’t want to feel disposable.

Every success I touched was shared.
Every failure would have been mine to hold alone.

I’d become fluent in professionalism, but illiterate in self-preservation.

And sometimes I wonder if anyone sees past the performance. Past the curated calm. Past the blazer and timely Teams replies.

If they see the tremble underneath.
If they ever notice the cost of composure.

P.S.

If this resonated with you — or made you think of someone quietly holding it all together — I’d be grateful if you shared it. Sometimes, we need to know we’re not the only ones cracking under the weight of showing up. For now, Hold On.